The Temple Walls
by Aiyta
Summary: Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.
1. Muchacho Con El Pelo Aciano

_Before we begin..._

_Thanks to those who voted,_ and chose the story they wanted me to write next. The Temple Walls and Carry You ended up receiving equal votes at the cut-off time, and so I have made the decision to go ahead with The Temple Walls. Two main reasons for that choice being that 1) this story is by far the shorter of the two, and 2) I had certain parts of this story already written, therefore, making it easier to complete. However, that doesn't mean Carry You isn't going to happen - what I plan to do is complete this story, and then begin both Carry You and the Angela On The Couch sequel simultaneously. _I hope this appeases you all, and if it does not, then you can send me hate-mail detailing my utter betrayal._

* * *

**The Temple Walls  
**Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

.

_Useful Information  
_FTI and TJM both happened – as did the premise (as per The Pataki's spin-off) that Arnold moved away sometime after TJM. In this case, Arnold and his parents returned to Hillwood after TJM (10 years old) but then moved back to San Lorenzo two years later (12 years old).

_Co-ordinates  
_Co-ordinates underneath the chapter headings relate to the location the chapter occurs in – obviously, since Hillwood and San Lorenzo are not real places, the co-ordinates used for them are borrowed from other, real, places. Co-ordinates are as follows...  
_Hillwood: _40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; _San Lorenzo: _4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; _Washington DC: _38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W  
Understanding/knowing the co-ordinates is not entirely necessary – the words in the chapter should make location very clear.

_Disclaimer  
_I absolutely, definitely do not own Hey Arnold, nor make any gain (besides your lovely reviews) from putting the characters into adorable little situations such as this one. _Comprende mi amigas_?

_Oh, Disclaimer #2  
_Spanish in this story is achieved with the aid of Google Translate – I claim no sound knowledge of the Spanish language and I'm sure there are horrid translations throughout. I apologise in advance.

* * *

**Muchacho Con El Pelo Aciano**

**4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W**

**_Flashback - Eleven Years Ago_**

* * *

_Helga Pataki closed her eyes, the stream of pure spring water descending from the rocky ledge above and ricocheting over her shoulders. Droplets of fresh, cold water meandered along her pale skin, easing the muggy heat of the dense surrounding jungle landscape. Arnold Shortman held her lanky figure tight against his own, tracing lazy circles against the flat of her shoulder-blade that made her legs turn to jelly._

_Not far into the distance, she could faintly make out the feather-light footsteps of the Green Eyed warriors, traversing deep into the tropical foliage during their afternoon hunt. Most days, Helga would have liked to join them, as they taught her traditional customs and almost made her blush each and every time they called her Warrior Princess. However, today she happily forewent tactically enveloping herself in mud, and learning to pin-point strike with a hand carved spear – in favour of spending an afternoon with the boy she loved unconditionally._

_Arnold pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, spending tingles down her spine, and she blinked, slowly raising her eyes to meet his. Her hands danced across his chest, slightly broader than last she saw him, and his beautiful skin tanned far darker than it had ever been in Hillwood. His eyes, she swore, shone a deeper emerald than in his slightly younger years, and his blonde hair shimmered in the jungle sun, but drooped underneath the steady fall of crisp, cool water. Her heart swelled to know, that whenever a lock of cornflower hair fell across his forehead with the weight of water, she could reach up with no hesitations and sweep it back into place._

_"I love you, Helga." he stated simply, a bright smile on his face and his hand still tracing lazy loops across her skin. His eyes locked onto hers, as she wriggled her hands free from her sides, splashing through the current of falling water as she lifted them to rest upon his shoulders._

_"I love you, too."_

_Pulling her closer, Arnold bent to softly brush his lips against her own, and Helga exhaled slowly as his eyes, wide with anticipation, silently asked permission. She almost rolled her eyes at his prodigal chivalry, but instead secured her hands at the nape of his neck and pulled him forward, initiating the closer contact. On their own volition, her eyes slipped shut once more as their lips moved together, her brain working overtime to commit to memory the way he tasted of native red berries. Daringly, she slid her tongue gently across his lower lip, heavily anticipating his reaction. His hands, warm against her bare skin, dropped from her shoulder blades in surprise and instinctively grasped at her hips before reciprocating._

_Arnold broke away slowly, moments later, panting heavily and gathering her tightly into his embrace, arms moving around her mid-back and lifting her into the air with once swift movement. Helga squealed girlishly, embarrassingly, in response and wrapped her long legs around his waist to steady herself. Her hands grasped at his shoulders, cheeks tingling with rushing warmth both at her embarrassing verbal reaction and at their intimate position, and Arnold chuckled slightly._

_"When did you get so strong, Football Head?" she challenged, a gigantic untameable grin betraying any sarcasm in her words._

_Arnold smirked at her, knowingly, "Hmm, maybe around the time I grew taller than you?" he suggested with a triumphant look. Helga narrowed her eyes and huffed at his sneaky reminder that he was, in fact, now the taller of the two by just a fraction._

_Gripping her tighter against him, Arnold removed all thoughts of growth-spurts from her mind, as he spun them in fluid circles, periodically drenching them both underneath the slim stream of falling water. Helga shook her head slightly as he slowed, displacing some of the water droplets that clung to her eyelashes and dripped down onto her lips. Her blonde hair, frizzed into messy waves from the jungle heat, now stuck straight and damp to her neck and shoulders. Smiling, she wiped beads of water from Arnold's forehead and shifted in his arms, moving to capture his lips with her own once more. Still holding tight, they kissed languidly beneath the rocky ledge, before Arnold carefully dropped her back onto her feet._

_"Helga," Arnold said thoughtfully, as her feet found the smooth rocks beneath the lake surface once more. He moved forward, slipping his hand into hers, and pulling them toward the lake shore. "I want to show you something."_

_Helga paused, frowning, and considered putting up a fight, wanting nothing more than to continue easing the summer heat beneath the pure, cool water. Sensing her hesitation, Arnold turned slightly and pointed toward their intended destination. Her breath caught as she laid eyes upon it, a large, ancient building made entirely of rock and built into the sloping rocks atop the waterfall. Wordlessly, she intertwined her fingers with Arnold's, following him onto the lakebed and up a steep path, toward what Helga assumed must be a temple, perhaps dedicated to a god of the Green Eyed people. She noticed, as they drew closer, intricate carvings engraved into the aged stones, depicting saviors and warriors alike._

_"Woah..." she breathed, eyes glued to small green gems, placed upon the chest of each carefully carved hero and heroine. Each stroke, etching, made into the rock was precise, perfect, ornate. _

_Arnold grinned, squeezing her hand as they approached the entrance, riddled with strangely placed stones, tall and thin. "This is the Temple of the Adventurers." he explained, moving her with him through the rocks, making a short and concise maze that Helga quickly realized, without prior knowledge, would be a timely process to figure out. Inside, her eyes fell upon a large, stony altar dripping with dazzling green emerald gems, sparkling in the filtered sunlight peeking through gaps and cracks in the outer rocks. Arnold moved forward, headed toward the elaborate platform, "My parents got married here."  
_

_Helga followed, unblinkingly and in awe, her eyes drifting across the tall stone arch, etched with Spanish she could not understand, but unique Green Eyes symbols she instantly recognized. Love, depicted by a shape similar to an eye but filled with a small waved line and two dots by the left-hand corner, rested above all at the very center of the altar. Surrounding it, two on either side, were the symbols for strength, courage, honesty and unity. Suddenly, years of fantasies and blissful dreams about marrying Arnold in a traditional, western church seemed irrelevant. Her heart skipped a beat, breath momentarily hitching at the concept of getting married, here, in such an ancient, beautiful place. One in which his parents, whom Helga adored, had said their vows._

_Questions, statements, poetic words and sappy mutterings, all warred within her mind, threatening to burst from her lips at any given moment. Instead, she held back, ignoring daydreams of tribal weddings and the creeping sadness of her quickly approaching departure, back home to Hillwood. She and Arnold, for the foreseeable future, would be miles and continents apart and so, her mind shifted back toward his statement, the topic of his own parents. "How old were they?" she asked, "When they got married?"_

_Arnold startled slightly beside her, her sudden question echoing throughout the previously silent space, loud against sturdy stone walls. His hand, still resting in hers, motioned toward the grand arch and he smiled as he pulled her toward it. "Twenties," he answered, as they sat down on smooth, gray stone, "more than ten years older than we are now."_

_Helga nodded, shuffling closer and nestling her head against his shoulder, reveling in the warmth still radiating from his skin. "Ten years..." she echoed contemplatively, as his arm intuitively snaked around her shoulder, pulling her closer and into a more comfortable position. She let her eyes wander the temple walls, mind far off, imagining a future that seemed so far away._

_"What do you think we will be doing in ten years time?" Arnold mused, shifting slightly to look at her directly._

_Scoffing, Helga rolled her eyes, "I don't know about you, bucko, but Helga G. Pataki will be running the world." she assured him confidently, "Or, at least the United States."_

_Arnold grinned, amused, and Helga hid her pleased smile, knowing he believed in her, did not doubt her in the least. He never doubted her, had no reason to, he said. It made her feel strong and safe, all at once, that everything would be just fine. "So what about you..." she wondered tentatively, "what will you be doing?"_

_"I'll be right beside you." he promised her, instantaneously, gathering her closer and gazing at her with utmost sincerity. He tapped her chin, and leaned down, his kiss tender and affectionate, and one of the rare times he had ever fully initiated. Helga sighed softly, lost in the feeling - his actions confirming, insuring his words, an unbreakable assurance that he would be forever by her side._

_"Okay, Football Head," she said, slightly softer than usual, "but you don't get to make the executive decisions, alright?"_

_Laughing happily, Arnold nodded, "Whatever you say, Helga." he assented, "Whatever you say."_


	2. Electing Miss Pataki

**The Temple Walls**

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

_Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W_

* * *

**Electing Miss Pataki**

**38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W**

**July 17****th****, 08:00**

* * *

_Reminder_: This chapter takes place **eleven years** after the flashback in chapter one.

* * *

Helga Pataki, twenty-four year old state political candidate, flipped a smooth white plastic key card through the office building sensory system. Signalling recognition of her identity, the software immediately opened the woodgrain double doors and allowed her entry. Upon her entrance, various copy-room and accounting staff peered up from their cubicle desks, watching her with idle curiosity. Helga vaguely heard whispers, discussions among co-workers, as to whether they planned on voting for her, or not. Ignoring the hushed conversations, Helga continued forward, passing by a few familiar faces. Ronald Irving, sexist extraordinaire and laziest copy-room employee to set foot in an office, spun on his half-broken desk chair as she approached.

"Lookin' fine, baby doll." he leered, accompanying his statement with an obnoxious whistle. Helga clenched her fists, pausing her charge toward Iain Normandy's office, and turning to directly face the middle-aged man. Ronald crossed his arms, but once fixed with a deadly scowl, withered underneath Helga's gaze and decided, instead, to focus his attention toward various stacks of paperwork that littered his small desk. Paperwork that, Helga was certain, he would never honestly finish anyhow.

Confidently assured that Ronald was effectively discouraged, for the next few hours at least, Helga refocused her attention upon the large, executive office space beyond the rows of cubicles. Mr Iain Normandy, legal advisory and defense attorney, was currently the source of Helga's exponentially increasing irritability. Countless times, she had considered forgoing their scheduled meeting, absolutely certain that, if prior discussions held with Normandy were any indication, today would not prove enjoyable. Furthermore, she found it unnecessary, and certainly offensive, that he persistently insisted she attend _his_ office, in person, for their discussion rather than conducting another telephone conference as they had done in the past. Her displeasure with the situation only served to increased when his pompous secretary forced her to book his time, _a week_ in advance, to ensure ample availability. It was as though, somehow, Normandy had forgotten her possible future position within the political party which paid his wage.

Locating his office, despite rarely having set-foot in this particular department, proved effortlessly simple. His name, and official title, plastered in pretentious gold-plated lettering, was adorned on possibly the largest private doorway on the entire floor. Normandy's receptionist, overbearing and annoying as she was, glared in absolute offense as Helga passed her by entirely. Approaching the door, Helga tapped loudly twice and, without waiting for formal invitation to enter, stepped in on her own accord. Whilst his secretary was certainly stewing with anger outside, Mr Normandy himself seemed unfazed and hardly surprised, by Helga's decision to thwart general social courtesy.

Helga surveyed his office quickly, "Normandy." she addressed the tall, slim man coldly. Normandy frowned slightly, clearly aware of the lack of friendliness behind her greeting. Moving forward, Helga located a bleak, gray armchair by his bookcase and flopped herself down dramatically, raising an expectant eyebrow. "You wanted to speak with me."

Mr Normandy cleared his throat and stood, adjusting his equally bleak slate gray suit and tie. "Listen," he began, fixing Helga with a pointed look, "Mrs-"

"Miss Pataki." Helga interrupted swiftly, crossing her legs and narrowing her eyes.

Normandy, unfortunately, pointedly ignored her and strode around his solid wooden desk, shifting his awkwardly lanky frame into perfectly straight and tall posture. Helga rolled her eyes, certainly hoping he didn't intend himself to appear intimidating, as he was sorely failing. "I am certain you are aware of the subject I have called you into my office to discuss?" he suggested tactfully.

Helga grunted, lowly from the back of her throat, resisting further all urges to roll her eyes _again_. "Unfortunately." she responded bitterly.

Nodding sharply, Normandy began pacing slightly before her, "What you have proposed to do," he paused, looking directly at her from over his shoulder, "or _rather_, what you have intended to carry out _without consent_ - is in direct violation of the laws which regulate election candidacy."

Inwardly, she cursed the day he was born. "No, _all_ I want to do is put my name on a poster." Helga retorted, crossing her arms and shaking her head.

Normandy shifted, tapping a finger against his nameplate, apparently feeling it necessary to remind her of his occupation. She was hardly questioning his intelligence, nor his professional training, and she generally tended to respect his proficiency in legal matters. However, in this instance, she was absolutely unwilling to surrender her case.

"I can understand that. However, I believe you and I are both aware that this goes far beyond the simple matter of posters, even beyond the _leaflets_ I believe you are designing." he lectured sternly, "As you are well informed, this issue extends to your registry, and more specially, your intention to run for state election under a false name. A false name which you have _already_ placed upon the aforementioned election posters."

Helga groaned, "Helga Pataki _is_ my name!"

Appearing thoroughly unimpressed, Normandy paused his pacing once more. "Unfortunately, you and I both know very well that is simply not the case." he chided, as though she were a disobedient child.

Helga bit her tongue. Disappointingly, Mr Normandy possessed incredible professional talents and was a ruthless defense attorney, and so, for those two facts alone Helga could hardly compromise her party's future success by ripping him limb from limb. She did, however, desperately wish she could. Instead, she settled for another unsettling glare and a clipped tone, "With all due _respect, _Sir, I honestly cannot believe this even bears legal weight."

Normandy, perhaps surprised by her reluctant composure, raised an eyebrow and Helga was absolutely certain he was silently mocking her. "Perhaps, in hindsight," he suggested coolly, "you should have taken the appropriate time to research the implications of your decision."

"Oh come _on_!" Helga protested. He was _definately_ mocking her. She stood from the armchair, arms raised in utter frustration. "I was _thirteen_ years old! Heck, how is it even legal to grant something like that to somebody who's barely made it out of grade school?"

"Yet again, if you had researched-"

Helga moved closer, dangerously narrowing her eyes, and essentially hissing her words. "I was in a _jungle;_" she reminded him lowly, "I didn't exactly have a law encyclopedia in my right hand pocket."

Evidently intimidated, Normandy shifted, stepping backward to shuffle behind the safety of his desk. "I feel there is nothing further to discuss on the matter." he announced promptly, "I'm positive you are mindful that electoral registration is finalized in four months time. If you wish to campaign for state election under your birth-given name, then I believe you completely understand the standard legal procedure you must complete to do so."

"Ugh," Helga huffed, balling her fists in irritation, "why do heat of the moment decisions _always_ bite me in the ass!". Halting, she blinked, the terminology in her sentence registering in her mind, and her head falling into her hands with a resigned sigh.

Unperturbed by her sudden loss of composure, of perhaps taking full advantage of it, Normandy continued to drive home his infuriating argument. "Perhaps, you might wish to re-evaluate what you really want from your life," he paused, "_Mrs Shortman_."

"Pataki!" she promptly snarled, lifting her face from her hands and noting his particularly smug expression. "Helga _Pataki_."

Normandy prepared to respond, however, unwilling and unable to tolerate his presence any longer, Helga stormed from the room and slammed the expensive office door behind her. She exhaled heavily, leaning her weight against the now closed door as Normandy's secretary, whose name Helga struggled to recall, shot her yet another displeased look, this time for the mistreatment of her boss' office door.


	3. Send My Papers Send Your Signature

**The Temple Walls**

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

_Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W_

* * *

**I Send My Papers; You Send Your Signature**

**38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W**

**July 21****st****, 10:00**

* * *

Helga stepped gingerly into the sweeping foyer of Washington's San Lorenzo consulate. It had been redeveloped extensively since her last visit as a scowling, unimpressed ten-year-old. Washington held the United States' only diplomatic center for relations with the largely unheard of jungle country, and Helga had been pleased to discover it lay only ten minutes from her apartment complex.

Surveying her surroundings, she noted the building was slightly larger now, with a sweeping entrance. Fourteen years ago, visiting both for rigorous passport validation and a short educational session, the fifth-grade class of approximately twenty children had barely any room to move upon being shuffled into the designated waiting area. Helga bit her lip, suppressing a reluctant smile at the flood of memories. Never would she have guessed that their journey into the dense jungle national would prove to be as dangerous, and rewarding, as it truly turned out to be.

"Oh, hello, hiya!"said an enthusiastic voice. Helga blinked and refocused her attention on the present. "Welcome!"

Mildly startled by the fervently warm greeting, Helga struggled for a response. "Hello..."

"Are you here for an appointment?" hurriedly questioned a small, blonde girl behind the reception desk. Her obviously brand-new name tag read _Candace._ "Oh, of course you are. Okay. I need, just, your name an-and I can search for your file here!"

Helga cautiously moved forward, pausing to be certain Candace was entirely finished speaking. "Helga Pataki." she informed the very young girl, with a nod.

Candace beamed brightly, "Pataki!" she repeated purposefully, hands flying toward her keyboard. "Pataki... Pa-taki... P-a-ta-ki..." she paused, brow furrowed and head shaking slightly. "I-I, well, I don't _have_ anything in the system for Pataki." she sounded apprehensive, and appeared slightly panicked.

Lips pursed, Helga murmured a soft groan and forced herself to say _it - _the name."Helga Shortman." she managed, barely more than a pathetic whimper.

"I'm sorry," Candace snapped her head up, hands stilled above the keys. "I didn't quite hear?"

"Helga Shortman, try that." she sighed.

Candace slowly tilted her head, face lighting with recognition. "Helga _Shortman_," she repeated gleefully, "yes, yes, I saw that earlier. Uh.. oh, yes, here it is!" she appeared truly proud, clicking triumphantly upon the name. "Alright, Mrs Shortman-"

"Helga. Just, call me Helga."

Surprised, Candace bit her lip and paused, but slowly nodded in understanding. "Oh, okay then M-... Helga." she acknowledged pleasantly, "I-you, you'll be seeing Ms. Wayman today. Her office is just down that hallway there, the second door on the left."

Helga forced a smile, and a polite "Thank you." trying desperately to shake her increasingly souring mood. It certainly wasn't Candace's fault, nor anybody else's in all honesty, that Helga had been forced here by necessity. However, revisiting the matters she had done her utmost to forget for _years_, had worn Helga's patience paper-thin. Meandering her way through the well-lit hallway, Helga shortly arrived at an office door slightly ajar, adorned with the simple label _Mrs Helen Wayman_.

Ms. Wayman, clearly aged well beyond her fifties with graying ringlet curls and a short, plump figure, glanced up as Helga rapped upon the door-frame. Helga smiled politely, and the woman promptly placed her pen down, standing to greet Helga as she moved forward.

"Good morning." she spoke warmly, offering her hand. "I'm Helen Wayman, pleasure to meet you."

Firmly shaking the proffered hand, Helga smiled in return. "Helga Pataki." she introduced herself, "I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice."

"It's no issue, I assure you." Ms. Wayman responded politely. She nodded toward two simple blue chairs, sitting adjacent her location behind the desk. "Do take a seat and make yourself comfortable."

Helga immediately placed herself upon the closest chair, thankful it was more comfortable than it appeared. Ms. Wayman, meanwhile, sifted through an abundance of paperwork in unruly piles scattered across the expanse of her desk. "Let us get directly down to business. San Lorenzo marriage law differs _vastly_ from that of American marriage law." she began promptly, flipping over random files and shaking her head when they were inevitably the wrong one. "In most cases, especially when minors are involved, American law does not acknowledge the union until additional paperwork is completed and signed off in an American court of law."

Sighting a thick document, littered with varied color pages, Ms. Wayman decisively grasped for it and, upon glancing at the first page, seemed satisfied. "In your case, documentation satisfied marriage legality in both San Lorenzo _and_ America." she continued, heaving the document across the table and placing it directly in front of Helga. Helga drew a sharp breath, eyes wandering the old and tattered parchment-style paper sitting atop the large document. Two signatures, small but clearly scrawled by young teenagers, graced opposite corners on the bottom of the page.

"With that in mind," Ms. Wayman pressed on, and Helga tore her eyes away from the fateful scribbles. "Mr. Normandy, your legal advisory, is correct in stating that a divorce must be carried out in order to achieve your current goals."

Helga ran a hand across her forehead, "Criminy." she cursed, "why can't I just apply to legally change my name?"

Ms. Wayman appeared apologetic, and flipped through to the third page of the extensive documentation. "San Lorenzo marriage law, section eight," she instructed, tapping lightly against the relevant section, "stipulates unique tribal law that respects the indigenous people and their deeply seeded union beliefs. By-law two negates the right of a woman married within tribal ceremony to retain her maiden name upon marriage, nor to discard of her married name unless in the case of divorce or spousal death."

"That's ridiculous!" Helga protested immediately, "What abut American law?"

Grimacing, Ms. Wayman shook her head. "Unfortunately, this document..." once more she tapped against the page, "binds you to the laws of San Lorenzo as precedent."

Helga let out a labored breath, "_Of course." _she noted flatly.

Ms. Wayman thumbed her way forward, through further pages, revealing the very last section. Estimating visually, Helga roughly accounted for somewhere in the range of thirty pages constituting the particular section now on display. She noticed that, unlike previous pages which were one but not the other, this section comprised both English and Spanish translations for each paragraph.

"This is the portion of the document necessary for completion to finalize divorce." Ms. Wayman explained, "This satisfies legal requirements in both San Lorenzo and the United States. Signatures of both parties must be present at each of these black crosses." she motioned toward the black cross displayed on the initial page. "In total, there are eleven places throughout the document in total where you must sign. Once this is achieved, you may then submit."

Despite being overwhelmed by the severity, Helga nodded. "How quickly can you have these sent." she murmured absent-mindedly, flicking slowly through the divorce papers. Unamusingly, the section was printed on startlingly green paper.

"Err, well... uh, Mrs Shortman-"

"Miss Pataki." Helga corrected automatically.

Ms. Wayman cleared her throat and nodded. "Right, my apologies..." she replied, "but do you happen to have any idea, ah, _where _your husband is?"

Documentation pages fell from her grasp, and Helga stilled. "San Lorenzo." she said levelly, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhmmm..." Ms. Wayman acknowledged uncertainly, "but, _where_ exactly in San Lorenzo?"

Helga swallowed hard, gritting her teeth. "No," she urged, "no, don't tell me..."

"Mrs Sh-_Helga_, whilst we have no doubt that Mr Shortman is residing in San Lorenzo, preliminary efforts proved unable to trace his location to any specific region." she revealed hesitantly. "Of course, we are very well aware of his close affiliation with the Green Eyed People, however, they prove incredibly illusive to locate more often than not and it is highly unlikely authorities will ever pinpoint their village locations. If anything, their only hope will be times when Mr Shortman ventures out from Green Eyes villages, perhaps to use regional posts for things such as letters or miscellaneous supplies."

Obnoxiously foreign feelings, bitter rage she had put behind her long ago, welled up within her chest. Instinctively, her fists curled against her thigh, "Ah, that little _twirp_!" she blurted.

Ms. Wayman shifted her position, peering across toward her computer screen for a few brief moments. "San Lorenzo authorities have informed me that they believe correspondence, of any kind, will provide the best possible chance of locating your husband." she eyed Helga carefully. "Say, letters or postcards with stamping?"

"Letters?" Helga bit her lip, shaking her head. "I haven't received a letter from him in at least seven years."

Ms. Wayman mulled over her response, pursing her lips and tapping a finger gently. "Are there any family members he keeps in contact with?" she suggested.

Helga frowned, "No. His family members are with him in that feakin' jungle."

"Friends, perhaps?" she continued.

Uncomfortably, realization slowly dawned upon Helga, "Geraldo..." she muttered lowly. Her lips twitched into a tight grimace, running a hand tensely through her long, blonde hair. "Oh, _criminy_."

* * *

A/N: Nep2uune asked in a review of the last chapter, how it could be possible that Arnold and Helga were allowed to marry so young. I hope this chapter makes it a little clearer that they were married under the laws of another country, and more specifically, tribal laws of an indigenous group. Therefore (in the case of this fic, at least) Green Eyes/San Lorenzo law is vastly different in _many_ ways to American law. And, as explained above the reason her marriage is equally recognized in America is due to thorough ('special circumstances') paperwork. Hope that all makes more sense now!


	4. Hillwood Was Never Home

**The Temple Walls**

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

_Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W_

* * *

**Hillwood Was Never Home**

**40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W**

**July 24th, 13:45**

* * *

**Warning: **This chapter contains swearing.

* * *

Hillwood appeared to have become suspended in time during the past six years, in which Helga had easily avoided travelling anywhere near her hometown. Vine Street had accumulated a growing number of potholes, and perhaps Mr Green had given his shop a new slick of paint – but everything else remained the same. Helga eased her rental car around the corner, and onto Amblestrand Boulevard, which hosted rows of evergreen trees that required several years worth of pruning. Ambelstrand lay within a modest area of Hillwood, filled with small apartment blocks and semi-detached housing. Gerald and Phoebe Johanssen resided within number seventy three; a beige brick building with a bright white front door. Slowing the car to a halt, Helga tapped her fingers slowly against the leather steering wheel and reminded herself there was simply no other option.

Warm summer breeze tickled her skin as she stepped from the car, and assumed the most confident posture she could manage. Winding her way through the garden path, Helga focussed her mind upon her objective: answers. She'd have been foolish to attempt a simple phone call, for she'd have been hung up on swiftly, but she _did_ require Gerald's help. In that case, confronting him directly had presented itself as the only hope she had.

Helga eyed the door warily, and pushed against the small doorbell. Instantly, the sounds of movement echoed from the hallway, and Helga soon found herself face-to-face with her childhood best friend.

"H-Helga..?" Phoebe stammered uncertainly, her eyes wide and disbelieving. "_Oh my_, it's been so long..."

"Yeah, so long..." she responded bitterly, unable to mask the resentment lacing her tone. Helga grit her teeth, as Phoebe froze and chewed her lip anxiously, clearly uncertain how to respond.

Phoebe's eyes darted down the short hallway, then back to meet Helga's. "Uh, would you like to come inside?" she offered politely.

"No, I just need-"

Suddenly, her next words faded from her conscious mind, as Gerald Johanssen stepped into the hallway. His eyes met her own with a chilling glare, as hostile and unforgiving as Helga had imagined it might be, perhaps even more so. Noticing the silence, Phoebe peered backward at her husband.

"Look who came by, Gerald..." she announced tentatively.

Gerald flinched visibly and stalked toward the door, stopping once he stood directly beside Phoebe. "What the _hell _is she doing at our house?" he growled, his words were for Helga herself although he refused to directly acknowledge her presence.

Phoebe winced, shifting nervously and eyeing him pleadingly. "Gerald, be civil." she implored.

"No fucking way." Gerald declared, glaring directly in Helga's direction. "Not when she decides to show up after nine years of avoiding us and, what, expects us to welcome her?" he narrowed his eyes further, daring her to confirm his suspicions. "What do you want, Pataki?"

Helga faltered, beneath the weight of his anger, for mere moments before agitation took hold. She wouldn't dare continue to be treated as the villain, after all this time. Her eyes met his, and she matched his withering glare. "I just want to know where the heck I might find your good-for-nothing best friend."

"Oh, you mean your _husband_, Helga?" he immediately inquired, feigning sarcastic interest.

Helga bristled, "I would hardly call him that."

"Yeah," he scoffed, "well what _would_ you call him? Last time I checked, Pataki, when you swore under oath to love and stand by somebody it was supposed to _mean_ something."

Bitterness of years prior bubbled toward the surface, and Helga let her gaze drop toward Phoebe's left hand. "You'd know, wouldn't you Geraldo?" she demanded, her voice low and offended. "Didn't think me appropriate to invite to your lousy wedding, huh?"

Phoebe's eyes dropped, "We didn't know your address, Helga." she murmured softly, "Or even what state you were living in..."

"_No_," she shook her head dismissively, "you just didn't want me there," her hand flicked toward Gerald accusingly, "Hair Boy was probably worried I'd be some kind of bad omen."

Gerald stepped forward, blocking Phoebe who appeared thoroughly distressed, and stepping directly into Helga's personal space. His exhale of breath was sharp, "Maybe I did thank that, Pataki," he growled, "maybe I didn't want you around to mess up _our_ life the way you messed up Arnold's."

Helga's fingers twitched, curling themselves into fists at her sides. "I hardly messed up Arnold's life," she spat indignantly, "he used me until he was done with me, and made it _very clear_ that I was _nothing_ to him!"

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe you took things out of context, Helga?" he challenged, "Maybe you could have stopped and _listened_, instead of jumping to insane-"

"I refuse to fight over this for the hundredth time in our lives, Geraldo." she interrupted, hissing her worlds and swallowing the bile rising in her throat. "Case is _closed_."

Gerald spent a tense few moments watching her closely, his stance guarded. "Fine, case closed." he stepped backward slightly to grasp for the door-handle, "If you want to know where Arnold is, then you know what? Figure it out for your damn self because I'm sure as hell not going to tell you!"

Carefully he eased Phoebe backward, and out of harm's way, before retreating slightly into the hallway himself. Focusing one last disapproving glare in her direction, Gerald slammed the stark white front door closed and left Helga standing alone on the porch. She remained motionless, staring at the blank white surface for a few quiet moments, regaining her breath and suppressing the urge to scream.

* * *

A/N: Apologies for the sudden period of inactivity - unfortunately it looks as though the next few months are going to be very busy for me so updates on this story may be rather slow.

Thanks to Nep2uune for further input - you're certainly keeping me on my toes! Firstly, without giving too much away I can say that annulment is not possible. Secondly (and this is to Lionheart also) despite being his wife, initially the best she could do would be to declare him a missing person and the resulting investigation would eventually then prove him alive. Something like that could also then get her fired for filing a report under false pretenses. I also see that being a lengthy process, and Helga needs fast results here.

Of course, that said, you both have a very good point in that Helga could use that avenue if she so chose.


	5. Campaign Trails, Authorities Fail

**The Temple Walls**

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

_Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W_

* * *

**Campaign Trails, Authorities Fail**

**38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W**

**August 11****th****, 18:20**

* * *

"Our economy _is_ our greatest asset," Helga stated confidently, her eyes levelly meeting the gaze of several prominent audience members, "and what we need is a long-term strategy. If we are to be _prosperous_ - and we should be - then our economy should be _powerful_," her pause was measured, her shoulders set confidently and her expression unshakably intense, "and with the right policies, the right _leadership_, we can achieve that."_  
_

Helga quirked her lips with the faintest hint of satisfaction at the response she had drawn. Wealthy businessmen and investors alike murmured among themselves, whilst others eyed her with a decisiveness that indicated her triumph. She never found herself growing weary of moments like these, where a grand hall brimming with Washington's elite waited to be charmed and swayed by her well constructed arguments. It hardly fazed her; the challenge of worming her way into people's subconscious, through projecting a meticulously planned public image. Helga had created herself, built her _entire life_, upon playing her part and playing it well. It was simply second nature by now.

"Uh, ma'am..." a faint whisper echoed from Helga's left-hand side, and a light tap fell upon her shoulder. Helga drew backward from the stand immediately, swiveling to face whoever dared risk their future employment by interrupting her during a conference. Behind her, stood a short and wiry girl, who appeared incredibly apprehensive about having been chosen for the task of being the aforementioned interrupter. "Urgent-" she said lowly, clearing her throat and peering down at a torn section of notepaper, "An urgent phone call for you."

Unimpressed, Helga frowned and motioned shortly toward the extensive audience of wealthy power-players, allowing her building annoyance to become quite clear. _Urgent _phone calls, in Helga's general personal experience, regularly proved entirely _non-_urgent within a few moments of deigning to answer them. She was hardly interested in sabotaging three weeks of speech writing, and re-writing, and re-reading - simply to find out one of her staff had pressed the wrong button on the coffee machine, or anything equally useless.

"It's from the embassy!" the small girl quickly squeaked; her expression panicked as she darted her eyes to meet Helga's steely gaze.

Helga's stoic expression immediately faltered, and her brow furrowed with brief contemplation. In the wings, her personal assistant Rick moved forward and Helga nodded, motioning him on, to take the reins.

"Annette has the call." offered a meek voice, as Helga swept from stage and Rick's voice began to fill the void. Trundling along, three steps behind, the shorter girl made a guarded motion in the direction of a slightly taller woman, dressed much the same. She, Annette, carried multiple different telecommunication devices in her grasp, and appeared to switch her attention from one to another at lightening speed.

Helga watched the smaller girl scurry off, somewhere closer to the podium once more, as Annette wordlessly offered the correct phone in her outstretched palm. Thankful to avoid unnecessary conversation, Helga retrieved the cell and scanned the area for a private space. She decided upon the nearby hallway, and moved from the room as Annette tapped at buttons and requested for callers to _please hold the line._

"Hello, this is Helga."

Shrill static noises erupted from the receiver initially, and Helga winced. "Oh, Mrs Shortman!" a cheerful voice finally echoed into Helga's ear, the moment the static passed.

"Pataki." she insisted swiftly - attempting to ignore the way her teeth clenched.

Helga waited patiently, "Right, yes." came Candace's apologetic tone, although her enthusiasm did not wane. "I am very sorry for any interruption to your day," she continued on, "uh, I mean your evening. But, Mrs Wayman insisted that I contact you _immediately_ you see- about recent developments."

"Yes?" the answer was swift, but Helga found her breath had momentarily stilled.

"Ohh, right, right." Candace chortled, as though she had forgotten to carry on. Shuffling sounds, from shifting paperwork, blended into the background. "You see, the authorities working for the consulate in San Lorenzo, hmmm..._ well._" her sentence ended abruptly. Helga could hear more shifting. "Without any further information they have been unable to make any further, err, headway with your husbands location..." this time, her voice trailed off slowly.

"Meaning?"

Candace was silent for an uncomfortably extended period. "Meaning that," she began with far less enthusiasm radiating from her voice, "uh, well... until further notice they will terminate their search-"

Helga felt her stomach churn. "They _what_?" she hissed.

"Ah, Mrs Sh-um, _Helga_," Candace teetered, attempting placation and failing, "in these circumstances they generally find it best to bide their time, you know... until the person in question makes movement. Say, like visiting an outpost to gather supplies or send mail."

Pushing her back to the nearby wall, Helga pinched the bridge of her nose. "How long will _biding time_ take?" she preemptively slumped onto the nearby bench seat, expecting an unfavorable response.

Candace was shifting, flipping, through paperwork again. "Oh, gosh, well," she replied, sounding increasingly uncertain, "depending on the case it can be anywhere from a few months to... years."

"I don't have years!" Helga bit back immediately.

"Well..." she said, "we could, I mean, Ms Wayman mentioned- maybe you could check letters-"

"Look," Helga began steadily, "the only person he writes to now is his best friend, who coincidentally happens to hate me. Personally, the last time _I_ received a letter was back in high school. Seven years ago."

"I- well..." Candace started, but stopped short in apparent defeat. "I suppose you could bring those in anyway?" she sounded unreasonably hopeful, "You know, just in case?"

Helga allowed her head to rest against her fingertips. She closed her eyes in frustration and exhaled loudly. "Alright." she conceded tetchily, "Knowing him he'll still be stuck in the same place like a loyal little do-gooder anyway."

"Uh.. okay!" Candace regained her cheery vigor instantaneously. Only perhaps sounding slightly confused by the petulant attitude Helga maintained with regard to the man she had married. It may also have logically been, that the girl could not fathom how loyalty could carry a negative connotation. Helga quickly decided to disregard the thought pattern immediately, before she dared attempt introspection. "I'll book an appointment for later this week?"

"No." Helga shook her head, despite the futile nature of such gestures whilst talking via telephone. "I'll have to fly back to my hometown to retrieve the letters," her shoulders rolled back against the cold wall, "I will call once I've found them."

Candace's fingernails could be faintly heard clacking against her keyboard. "Oh, okay Mrs Shor-Pataki." she retained an effortless brightness within her tone, as though none of the prior conversation had been fruitless. "Have a lovely evening. Bye!"

_Marriage, _Helga thought vaguely as she listened for the final _click_ of Candace disconnecting their call, _should be illegal_. Depressing silence filled the corridor and when Helga placed the cell phone on the wooden bench, beside her leg, the clunking sound was unnecessarily loud. She fought against the feeling, but ultimately it was useless - hatred flooded her emotions and she basked in her own self pity. If there were _anything_ worse than attempting to pry information from a vengeful Gerald Johanssen - it was the prospect of facing her utterly detestable family.


	6. Would You Get Me A Soda, Olga?

**The Temple Walls**

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

_Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W_

* * *

**Would You Get Me A Soda, Olga?**

**40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W**

**August 18****th****, 17:10**

* * *

Miriam Pataki, predictably drunk and dazed, flung open the daunting turquoise front door to the Pataki family home before Helga had truly allowed herself time to quell her instinctive ire. Helga watched silently as the older woman's bloodshot eyes flitted across the doorstep, her eyelids dropping and reducing her vision to a strained squint under the bright glare of the summer sunlight. Uncomfortable silence filled the space between them.

"Ah..." Miriam uttered blankly, a greying lock of hair falling across her face. She tilted her left hand unsteadily and almost split the pink liquid swimming around her Martini glass. Helga responded instinctively, stepping a little closer to catch the glass should it fall. Surprisingly, the glass never shattered, because Miriam suddenly tightened her grip and pushed her thinly framed glasses further up the bridge of her nose. "Ohh..." she slurred in realization, her expression a little clearer, "Hi sweetie!"

Helga involuntarily tensed. "Miriam," she greeted her mother curtly, "drunk as always, I see."

"Miriam!" bellowed a gruff voice, one Helga had honestly hoped to avoid. "Who the heck're you talking to?" he shouted, unnecessarily, down the hallway.

Miriam staggered backward, leaning against the doors edge slightly as she turned to respond. If she had truly respected the woman, Helga might have warned her to stand up straight, and stop using a movable object for stability. But she had long ago ceased filling the role as her mothers caretaker. "Ohh, B! It's Helga." she finally garbled out, "She's back from the prom!"

"_Prom_?" Helga hissed. "Seriously, Miriam? Newsflash, my _prom_ was seven years ago!"

Ultimately she should have known Miriam would struggle, perpetually inebriated as she was, to process the difference between past and present. It was only after an extended period of silence, and floundering expressions of sheer confusion that she appeared to have finally understood. "Wow, honey.." she smiled weakly, "Did you have... a good time?"

Helga considered leaving. It would be so _simple_ at this point just to go away and never return. Instead, she reminded herself she was presently without an alternative, and pushed forward. "No, _mom_," she sneered as she invited herself inside, "I never went."

"Aw, that's a shame honey..." Miriam cooed flakily, "why not?"

"Gee, I don't know, Miriam, maybe because Bob had already kicked me out of home by that point?" Helga offered sarcastically, beneath her heels an old floorboard creaked and she immediately shuffled to the side. Miriam didn't say a word and, honestly, hadn't seemed to notice the difference between Helga being outside previously, and inside presently. "Surely you remember, shoving me outside with suitcase whilst big-shot in there," her head jerked toward the '_Trophy Room_' where she safely assumed Bob was loafed, "shouted something about getting _that orphan husband_ of mine to look after me?"

Miriam, ridiculously enough, contemplated this in complete silence with a fingertip pressed to the base of her chin. "You know..." she began airily, remaining heavily supported by the slightly swaying wooden door, "now you mention it..."

Surrounding them, small gusts of warm summer air drifted in through the wide-open entryway. Helga prised her mother from her precarious location, and slammed the door shut. Miriam startled slightly at the noise. "Listen," she said forcefully, "I'm here to look at some old junk from my closet. I assume all my belongings are stashed away in some far desolate corner of the house?"

"Oh Helga, don't be so _silly_ dear, your bedroom's just like you left it this morning..." Miriam sing-songed deliriously. Clearly, she had entirely forgotten their prior discussion in record time. "Did you get to school okay today, sweetie?"

Undoubtedly experiencing a level of frustration that went beyond her ability to verbally explain, Helga chose not to validate her mother's question with any form of vocal response. She decided it pointless to explain herself, or the reasons for her visit, any further and instead headed directly for the staircase. As she began to make her way upstairs, her mother stood silently and watched her disappear. Eventually, Miriam decided her departure served as invitation to refill her Martini glass, and the drunken woman stumbled her way toward the kitchen. Helga idly wondered if she should follow her, perhaps attempt to remove the poison liquid from her mothers kitchen cabinets. However, her thought process was interrupted almost immediately.

"Hey, Olga!" Bob Pataki's voice boomed above the sounds of the television. Helga contemplated what element surprised her most; that he actually appeared to have taken note of her arrival, or that he had even deigned to speak to her. Despite the name he used, she knew very well he was aware she was not the _real_ Olga, or else he'd have been lumbering down the hallway to reward her with empty praise. He ignored her lack of response, "Get me a soda, would you?"

Helga narrowed her eyes and set about angrily stomping her way up the remainder of the stairwell, as well as along the short stretch of corridor toward her bedroom door. It was childish, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Instead, she placed a gentle hand on the door-handle to her childhood bedroom, as Bob began to complain loudly downstairs. Miriam had been correct, ironically enough, when she had stated that Helga's old bedroom remained precisely as she had left it. Stepping inside, Helga found her small single bed still made with dark pink sheets and the walls still covered in old blue wallpaper, dotted with small yellow hearts.

Carefully, as though entering a museum of sorts, she placed her oversized black handbag down atop her wooden dresser. In the center, the large mirror was covered with glossy photographs covering a few short years of her life. Helga leaned forward, each photograph causing memories to flood back as though they had occurred only days prior. She froze when her fingertips brushed one lone photograph, resting beneath the mirror and ripped directly down the middle. Slowly, she flipped the two separated pieces face-up and staring back at her were the smiling faces of both herself and Arnold. It was so rare to find a photograph of herself with a joyful expression, that she found herself momentarily fascinated. During her childhood, she had always scowled at cameras and in her older teenage years she'd looked perpetually sour; nowadays she found herself giving off looks of utter indifference, unless it was for a promotional shoot.

Nothing could cause her to forget the day the now-torn photograph had been taken; Arnold had taken her to the Temple of the Adventurers after having spent the morning beneath a majestic waterfall. It had been just days prior to their misguided decision to become joined in matrimony at merely thirteen years old. Furthermore, she could recall with painful clarity the day she had torn it into dividing pieces. Fifteen and heartbroken, arriving home from San Lorenzo far earlier than expected, with tears brimming in her red and swollen eyes. Helga blinked, and tore her eyes away quickly, pushing the memories aside and dropping both halves of the photograph back onto the dresser as though it had burned her skin.

Helga, instead, diverted her attention toward the third and final major piece of furniture in the small room; her large purple wardrobe. It currently stood across the entryway to her closet, blocking off the doorway entirely as though it were simply never there at all. She had moved it, with breathless shoving and pulling, mere hours before her final departure from Hillwood as a seventeen year old. It had been her solemn vow to herself that day, that she would never again peer into the contents of her old closet. Unfortunately accessing the required information, by way of finding Arnold's letters, required breaking that vow. She approached the closet as though it were dangerous, sliding her back against the side and firmly planting her feet before pushing backward and slowly moving it clear of the doorway.

Inside the closet, a mountain of useless trinkets were piled to the right-hand side. Discarded scraps of notepaper, some scrunched tightly into balls, littered the floorspace. Directly ahead of her, two large cardboard boxes carried the items she had completely packed away. It was with abject horror, that she then found herself turning to her left and coming face-to-face with a string of clap-activated lights and a papier-mâché football-headed shrine. Helga mentally avowed to burn every last object within the closet space before she left that evening.

Summoning her willpower, Helga gasped hold of the largest cardboard box and carried it over beside her bed with a great lack of enthusiasm for the ensuing task. It contained more letters than she recalled and was filled to the brim with envelopes of varying sizes and colour, not a single one of which had ever been read. She took a small handful of letters, amassing around eight in total, and searched both sides for relevant information. She steadfastly ignored the temptation to finally open one, and trained her attention instead to the post-stamped location of dispatch. It took her less than ten minutes to discern that each and every one had originated from an identical location.

Helga hastily drew her hangbag from the dresser, reaching for notepaper and her signature purple pen to scribble down the details. "Cruzeiro," she mumbled as she wrote, "Four, four, nine, five, dash, zero, nine. San Lorenzo."

Certain she had noted everything of importance, Helga bundled the envelopes back into the large cardboard box and tossed it back into the closet. It landed with a thud, tipping over and spilling its contents. Helga ignored the mess, and instead paused within the confines of what had been, during her adolescence, a place of security and serenity in an otherwise lacklustre existence. It felt strangely small, yet still so far removed from reality. She reached forward, and against all better judgement, seized the second and smaller cardboard box. It was notably heavier than the other, and Helga huffed as she placed it down at the bedside.

Instead of letters, Helga found it packed tightly with pink notebooks, each one of which was carefully labelled and chronologically ordered. She slowly brushed her fingertips over the spine of one, labelled '_Volume 22, Fifth Grade_' and, before she could stop herself, found her fingers nimbly leafing between the pages. Initially, she grimaced, faced with a particularly long and arduously repetitive poem bemoaning her inner adolescent turmoil but three pages later, she held back a wry smile. Lila Sawyer featured in a dramatically detailed diagram, wherein she had found herself in water she '_ever so couldn't swim in_'. Helga shook her head slightly, and slowly closed the notebook. She moved to place it back within the box, when a sliver of shimmering gold caused her hand to freeze mid-motion. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind, as her fingers wrapped around a cool, smooth surface that she had located her heart-shaped locket.

Helga had regrettably forgotten the image that lay within her prized childhood trinket, for if she'd remembered, she would not have picked it up. Instead, she found herself drawing a shaky breath as she looked upon her younger self serenely kissing Arnold Shortman. She held, in her palm, the sole photograph captured during their wedding ceremony - the photograph that had been, for the two years between visits, Helga's most prized possession. It was one of those perfect, lucky, once-in-lifetime shots as the sun made both teenagers appear as though they were glowing. It captured the silky curl of her hair; painfully achieved by tree leaves and heated oils, no less. Arnold's awry blonde locks shimmered, and the traditional green matrimonial gown she wore, gifted to her by the tribal elders, set off his emerald eyes like jewels. Helga had always felt the beauty of the photograph itself reflected the way she had felt; as though she were their princess, _his princess_.

Exhausted, and dreading what she may encounter downstairs, Helga let out a laboured sigh and leaned backward against two comfortable pink pillows. It was with a detached conscious that she noted herself closing her eyes, with the locket clasped tightly to her chest, and succumbing to the pleasant feeling of sleep.

* * *

A/N: Yay for a (slightly) longer chapter! I hope to update more frequently now (fingers crossed) but I'll be dividing my time between this fic and also making my first foray into the Harry Potter fandom ;) - wish me luck!


	7. Move It, Tall Hair Boy

**The Temple Walls**

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

_Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W_

* * *

**Move It, Tall Hair Boy**

**40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W**

**August 19****th****, 09:15**

* * *

Helga wrenched her eyes open as a small stream of glowing sunlight filtered through the old, worn curtains of her childhood bedroom. She uttered a mumbled grunt-like noise as she painfully extended her fingers, her almost entirely numb hands throbbing as she did so. Helga flexed her fingers, which had spent the night clutched tightly around her golden locket, until the blood-flow eventually returned. She shifted against the covers, eyes locked upon the photograph within the heart-shaped frame that glinted in the early morning light. It took a few extra moments of deliberation before she could successfully avert her gaze and make the conscious decision to place the locket elsewhere - face down. Everything from her shoulders, to her legs, ached from sleeping halfway off the small mattress and she groaned as she pulled herself upright. One quick step forward, and the locket slid onto the dresser top, as Helga peered out the window and into the sunrise.

She shifted slightly, stretching the tight muscles in her legs and rolling her tense shoulders before grasping for her large handbag and resolving to find the nearest source of _decent_ coffee. It was far too early for either of her parents to be awake, especially since Bob was presently 'retired' and so Helga took the opportunity to slip from the house without having to interact with them any further. Without consciously considering it, Helga blindly reached for the locket upon the dresser and dropped it into the corner pocket of her handbag, before rushing down the stairwell and down onto the streets of Hillwood.

Outside, the sunshine was already casting a pleasant warmth over the city and the birds of nearby Tina Park were whistling happily. Helga walked in the direction of the northern entrance gate, certain to find a cafe or vendor providing coffee somewhere nearby the large urban park. Tina Park had evidently undergone a face-lift, or two, during the seven years in which Helga had been away, and adjacent the northern gates was now a small collection of stores. On the very far left of the shops was a small cafe, decorated with blue stripes and seemingly buzzing with people despite the early hour. Helga concluded it was likely the best option in town, for Hillwood had never played host to many decent coffee spots, and she headed inside.

Helga found the outlay of the store simple, in that friendly-Hillwood-locals sort of way, and far more relaxed in atmosphere to the bustling coffee shops of Washington. It was perhaps half full within the shop and the sounds of patrons' discussions rippled throughout. Ahead of her, two people that appeared to be colleagues finished placing their order and strolled off to sit at a corner table. Helga was greeted by the middle aged woman behind the counter, with a friendly smile and a curious glance.

"Mornin', lass." the woman spoke. Helga found the heavy accent reminded her strongly of the Campfire Lass girls. "What can I get for ye?"

Helga reached lazily into her handbag. "Latte, thanks." she ordered absent-mindedly, handing over a note, "Largest you've got."

"A'right," the woman nodded, efficiently collecting and handing across her change, "take a seat, lass, yer look tired."

Ordinarily, she might have had something to say to anybody daring to comment upon her appearance so frankly, but Helga felt as tired as she evidently looked. She moved, not far from the counter, toward a small table and set down her handbag with a thump. One passing glance at her cell phone revealed, as expected, a multitude of missed calls and unnecessarily panicky text messages from her assistants. Helga let out a short, disparaging nose and slipped the device back into her bag, leaving their pleas unanswered for now but resolving to respond sometime later that day.

"Tall flat white," sounded an incredibly familiar deep voice, "thanks Anna, two sugars."

Helga instinctively groaned and shifted within her seat, fully intending to face the opposite direction and avoid his eyes. It proved useless the moment he turned from the counter, searching for somewhere to sit, as he spotted her almost immediately. His reaction was as unfriendly as expected.

"What the hell is going on, Pataki?" he demanded, approaching her table with determined strides.

Helga scowled, "I'm ordering my daily dose of caffeine, Geraldo."

Gerald looked remarkably irritated, perhaps even more so he had the prior month, when Helga arrived at his front door. "No, I mean, what the fuck are you doing in Hillwood again?" he demanded, "You _never_ come home, especially not twice in two months - what the hell are you up to?"

"How often I choose to visit my hometown is none of your business." she snapped.

"I'm making it my business." he stated forcefully.

Helga summoned her restraint, refraining from shoving a fist in his face and giving him a taste of nostalgia. "It has _nothing_ to do with you." she snarled.

"Maybe not," he conceded, although his expression held and his tone remained bitter, "but I'm almost certain it has a _lot _to do with my best friend - and since he's not around to represent himself, I'm taking a keen interest."

Incredibly frustrated to be headed toward yet another repetitive argument, Helga switched tracks and questioned _his_ motives for a change. "I would think, out of _all_ people, you'd be happy to have me out of Arnold's life."

"_What_?" Gerald effectively shouted, garnering him a few curious looks from surrounding customers. He appeared genuinely appalled by her remark, "Why the hell would that make me happy?"

Helga kept her voice low, hardly wishing to create a scene. "Because you hated me," she spoke in past-tense, but it was still just as relevant to the present, "and you hated me with Arnold."

Surprisingly, Gerald shook his head. "No, _Helga_," he said seriously, "I never I never hated you with Arnold – actually, if there was ever anyone who believed it would work out between the two of you, it was _me_!" he stepped closer, "You know why?"

"Uh, no, Mr Johanssen," Helga scoffed sarcastically, "I honestly don't have a freakin' clue!"

"Helga, you and Arnold, you had something _special_-" when she scoffed again, Gerald shot her a dirty look, "and _you_ of all people actually made me proud back then, you know that? Because if nothing else, you were dedicated to him like he was your _world_. And he... he loved you more than anything."

Ex-Campfire Lass, or whomever she was, placed a tall Latte upon the table and cast a curious glance between the pair. Helga gripped the takeaway cup immediately, as the middle aged lady swept back behind the counter. "I guess things change" she said simply, slowly rising from her seat.

"Bullshit." Gerald responded swiftly, although he stepped backward and allowed her ample space to leave.

Helga side-stepped him and headed for the exit. "No-" she began to argue, but was interrupted.

"Bull. Shit." he repeated firmly. His own coffee had been placed upon the counter, with a small smile from the lady whom he had referred to as Anna. Gerald moved to collect his order, but paused, and looked back at Helga. "Oh, and by the way, Pataki, Phoebe's pregnant..." he took the cup into his hands, "but you didn't notice that when you came by, did you?"

Helga stood, surprised, and rooted to her spot. She opened her mouth to respond, but Gerald was already moving past her.

"No, you didn't," he continued on, "because all you can think about is _yourself_."

Gerald Johanssen stormed from the small cafe, with a none-too-gentle swing of the entry door and disappeared into a car parked across the street. Helga watched in silence, until his red sedan disappeared around the corner.


	8. Laws, Who Makes 'Em?

**The Temple Walls**

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

_Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W_

* * *

**Laws, Who Makes 'Em?**

**38°53'42"N 77°02'12"W**

**September 1****st****, 13:55**

* * *

**Warning: **This chapter contains swearing.

* * *

It was a bad day, due only to become considerably worse; no sun was shining, the coffee was bitter and everybody was speaking too loudly. Helga jammed her slim security access card toward the scanning sensor beam, without luck. In her hands, the super-sized latte cup dipped dangerously onto its side as, consecutively, she managed to narrowly miss the blinking red laser. Helga frowned in frustration and slammed the key card back into the correct position with a forceful jab. Immediately, the office doors opened but, simultaneously, the coffee cup perched perilously in her hands tipped too far. One instinctive side-step later and Helga had narrowly missed showering her feet in scaling hot caffeinated liquid but, unfortunately, the hem of her pants had suffered quite a deal of black-splash. In a bout of incensed rage, she tossed the cup and its remaining contents at the nearest available trash can much to the surprise of a mousy-looking office worker who sat nearby.

Unfortunately, her dramatic entrance drew the attention of various staff, predominantly those easily distracted from their workload. Ronald, who had not even held so much as a pen in his hand, drew away from the paperwork he had been steadfastly ignoring.

"Mornin' sweet-cheeks." he practically drooled. "Hair's a bit frizzled this morning."

Helga instantly flashed him a hateful glare. "Why haven't you been fired yet?" she snarled. Unconsciously, her fingertips grazed the sides of her notably lackluster hairstyle; a plain, tight bun. It felt like carpet.

It wasn't often that her hair become unmanageable, in fact, for the most part her blonde locks were long, straight and simple. No considerable effort was required to maintain its shine and most decent hairstyles were effortlessly achieved. She couldn't hold curls for long, bar the use of strange jungle plants and oils, and it was much the same for errant frizz. Only one thing, aside from French dog-grooming parlors, could make her hair resemble a badly neglected fluff-ball and that was extended sleep deprivation. It also rarely occurred, despite her typically restless sleep patterns, and it had predominantly come about during childhood due to night-time vigils on Vine Street, followed directly by a weekday during the school term. In this current instance, she could safely blame an overload of stress.

"If I was, you'd miss me." Ron simpered in response. It was accompanied by a disgustingly audacious wink.

Of course, the present stressful, restless nights were certainly the result of the upcoming election process. It was quickly becoming a twenty-four hour responsibility, between creating a positive public image and developing sound policies. No matter where she found herself, the campaign followed with a swarm of communications; texts, emails, phone calls, _sticky-notes_, and the like, from assistants, delegates and businesses. In addition to that, Candace from the embassy called upward of twice per week to cheerfully confirm that, no, nothing further had been achieved. Nothing at _all_.

Ron attempted another sleazy facial movement and, without much thought, Helga succumbed to her childish instincts and reacted by flipping a large stack of paperwork over the edge of his painfully disorganised desk. It was followed by indignant protests from the useless man, to which she barely bothered to listen to as she continued onward. She similarly ignored the throat-clearing of Normandy's self-righteous secretary, whose name she still couldn't recall, and stormed directly past.

Unfortunately, there was no similar reaction from Mr Normandy, nor the tempting possibility of heart-stopping shock, when Helga flung open his newly polished office door and stormed inside. Helga found herself further agitated by his lack of appropriate consternation.

"Ah, Mrs Shortman." he, instead, welcomed her cordially. It was followed by a wave of his hand, toward the chairs adjacent his desk. "Good morning."

Helga growled softly beneath her breath and harshly released grip upon her weighty briefcase. It slammed to the office floor with a satisfying _thud_, and Helga purposefully avoided his intended seating arrangement. In silent defiance, she stiffly poised herself upon his gray armchair, by the bookshelf. She didn't bother correcting his choice of name, nor did she verbally respond to his greeting, either. Instead, she met his gaze with an unmistakable loathing.

It amused her, if only somewhat, to note that Normandy immediately stood but remained behind his desk; apparently unable to verbally wrangle with her unless he felt taller, and adequately protected behind heavy wooden furniture. He tugged at his tightly-fixed tie.

"Electoral registration is finalised in just over two month's time." he said, "Ten weeks, to be precise. Although, I'm sure you're already aware of the diminishing time frame?"

"I'm aware." Helga snapped.

Normandy stood taller, straightening his posture. "Ronald Irving, from my copy department, has brought it to my attention that you have sought preview copies of your electoral posters in recent weeks."

Helga narrowed her eyes. "Snivelling little jackass."

"Previewing electoral posters, as I'm sure you are well aware, is common practice for editorial measures." he stated importantly, pacing slightly within the small space between window and desktop. "There is no crime in such an act. However, there _is_ cause for concern when one is previewing posters that feature a name which, in light of current circumstances, is an illegal pseudonym. It is matters such as those that cause me grave concern."

Helga pressed her fingertips against the plush of the antiquated chairs armrests; her nails dug sharp lines in the upholstery. "I can assure you the _current circumstances _will not be continuing." she seethed, "I _will_ run for election as Helga Pataki and that is _exactly_ what my posters will say."

"Mrs Shortman.," responded Normandy, _pointedly_. "Your dealings with the San Lorenzo consulate are not beyond my knowledge. I am well aware that your husband is proving elusive. I believe he has taken up with an indigenous cult?"

"The Green Eyed People are not a _cult_." she spat. "They are a tribe, a civilisation of native people."

Instead of looking appropriately contrite, Normandy appeared to show little concern for the technicalities. "I do not profess any familiarity with their customs," he elaborated, quite unapologetically. "but I do know this: they are difficult, if not impossible, to find and your husband has very close ties with them. I simply say this because I harbor grave doubts that the international agency assigned to the case will be able to locate Mr Shortman, especially within just ten weeks time. I feel you will have no option but to enroll under your married name, and thus, you should prepare yourself and your posters accordingly."

"Isn't the law supposed to _protect_ me?" she narrowed her eyes. Ignoring, completely, his remarkably plain demand that she succumb to his directive. "Why do I feel like it's kicking me up the ass right now?"

Normandy sniffed, reveling in his perceived victory. "Such is the case," he started slowly, with a look of clear condescension, "when you combine delicate international laws."

"And here I was under the impression that _laws_ were your specialty!" Helga glowered, abruptly rising from the armchair.

In two efficient strides, their speaking distance had been halved. Normandy reacted in tandem with her movement, shuffling further backward until he found himself settled behind two barriers; his desk, and his office chair. A tense moment of silence befell the conversation. Helga raised an eyebrow, wordlessly challenging him for a returning statement.

"Mrs Shortman." he said, once more, although with notably less assurance lacing his tone. He adjusted his neck tie for the second time. "Perhaps, if you had intended on wanting your birth-name back, you should not have given it away in the first place."

Helga clenched her teeth, eyes focused hard upon his own. "It's _Pataki_." she hissed loudly. His slight flinch did nothing to placate her; grasping for her suitcase she headed for the exit. "And, fuck you." she added, before slamming the door in her wake.

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A/N: It's official, I'm a terrible person! It's been a whole month, my gosh – yes, you can throw your half-filled latte cups at me _and_ knock paperwork off my desk as revenge.

_ In response to a few reviews I've received..._

I know you guys are hanging out for more explanation of what happened between Arnold and Helga and, I promise, you'll hear Helga's side of the story in a few chapters time. Arnold's side of the story, well, that'll take a little longer (since, you know, he's in a jungle and all...)

And, to those who were worried about me cheating on you with the HP fandom, fear not I will not leave you! I'll just be splitting my time between both. I still fully intend to do 'Carry You' and other mentioned HA fics. I ain't goin' nowhere ;)


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